The Last Laugh
by Jck'sBrknHeart
Summary: TDK A journalist's big break turns into something much more than what she bargained for when she interviews the Joker.


**Author's Note; **This story may include spoilers. If you don't want to know anything about The Dark Knight, I would suggest that you don't read this story. If you've seen the movie, or don't care if you get a few mini-previews, be my guest. I wrote much of this in one-sitting after the first time I saw _The Dark Knight_ ages ago, it seems. This story is almost 10,000 words and is going to include an Alternate Ending (whenever I get the chance to do that). It's worth it though, I promise.  
**Disclaimer; **May contain spoilers! You have been warned. Twice! I do NOT own the Dark Knight, Heath Ledger, the Joker and related attire/likeness. I do, however, own this story and for the most part, the story of how the Joker came to be the Joker. I also own the Interviewer; so there, try to sue me now DC comics!

* * *

**I.**  
_The First Day_

"Prison, oh how sweet are the sounds of innocent prisoners wailing during the night of their silent terrors," The joker told me in his typical ironic fashion on one particularly toasty afternoon. Of course, you're wondering how I, the lowly obituary writer for the _Gotham Times,_ got in to speak to the criminal of all criminals. I would wonder if I were you, too. Truth is, actually writing a story for a newspaper or magazine has been a dream of mine for a _very_ long time. If you want something bad enough, eventually you will get it - or that's what my father always told me.

It was only after all of the regular journalists got sent back to the newspaper crying, having been laughed at by a man they call a sociopath and told that they are "prisoners to society and to the media", that the Editor-In-Chief told me to go for it. I suppose he thought that I, too, would come back with a tear streaked face and smothered hopes, but he was wrong and I'm glad he was. You see I'm a woman and the Joker is a man, and call it what you will, but I know how to use my sexuality and looks to get what I want. Some would say that I used lowly tactics that were unprofessional but it was those same 'lowly tactics' that got **me** the exposé about the Joker.

...but, enough about me, you don't want to know about me, do you? You want to know about the man they call the joker. What is his real name? How _did _he get those scars? Why does he wear make-up, is it a tactic to scare others, or is it a sorry attempt to cover up the previously mentioned scars? Who is he, really? And perhaps, more interestingly, Why So Serious? All the answers will come in time - well, all but one. The Joker has no name, no address, no automobile of his own, no family, and certainly no friends. Those are the conditions that we agreed to, and I'm not about to go back on my word.

"So you're probably wondering," The joker began, and paused to lick his lips, "how I got these scars?"

I nodded solemnly; in all honesty, I didn't want to know what horrible things this man had been through. I didn't want to hear of his horrors, of the tortures he must have been through to turn out so - vicious, yet there I was, listening to his story. Perhaps I had a shred of curiosity in me, not of how he got those scars or even why he wore the make-up, but rather, why did he do those things he did to get thrown into jail? In retrospect, I should have known it was all connected somehow but, I wasn't nearly as bright as I should have been. I wasn't prepared, not for what I was going to hear.

"The cop says it's your father's doing, the party guests say it was your own," I replied softly, my foot propped on my knee and my tape recorder on the corner of the table far out of the Joker's reach, "And, I really doubt that either of those are true. Do you lie to everyone, Joker?"

He leaned back, mocking the position I was in on my side of the table. He was handcuffed to a metal table that was bolted to the floor. Two guards were posted outside of the door, making sure that nothing would happen to me, the nobody obituary writer, "Do you really vie for fame, my obituary writing friend?"

"Friend? We're hardly friends," I scoffed, despite myself.

He looked taken aback at the harsh reality of it. Maybe in another time, another place, and under different circumstances could we have been friends - maybe even more in an alternate universe. A shrill laugh escaped from his lips, "I spoke too soon, I see. I'll grow on you."

I didn't know whether this was a threat or a promise, but I let it roll off me nonetheless, "We'll see."

He smiled at me, and despite the gruesome scars, I could see a handsome man underneath - well, perhaps if he had better hygiene and his hair wasn't dyed the color of puke. I sighed, "Continue, please."

"Answer the question," He replied, and licked his lips once again; "Do you really vie for fame?"

"If I wanted fame, I would achieve it some other way," I answered promptly, "I would take up theater or music."

Joker shook his head sending several strands of green hair flying, "You're not the theatrical type." He ran the hand not attached to the steel table through his gritty hair, "And I doubt you're very musically inclined. You can't even tap your toes to a beat."

He had a point there, "I suppose you're right there, I don't have the flair for theatrics as you seem to." I paused, "I don't want fame from this. I just want to write something longer than a hundred words."

"You're in luck," He said, wryly, "My story is much longer than a hundred words. You could write a novel, a regular biography of the criminal mind." He paused, staring at me intensely, "As they would say."

"So you agree that you're a criminal?" I questioned.

"You can't ask me another question, I haven't answered the first," He told me, sharply. It felt like a slap on the wrist, or as if I were a child being scolded for spilling paint on the carpet again, "But, by the standards of those who are enslaved by schedule, yes I am a criminal."

There was a comfortable silence between us, and as if that wasn't creepy enough, it was hard to look back at him. It wasn't the scars, as he might of thought, but rather his eyes; those insanely intense brown eyes. At the time, I was sure that he could devour my soul with his eyes and so I adverted my own. Instead, I stared at my scuffed leather stilettos and the wrinkles at the bottoms of my dress pants, "So, do you lie to everyone?"

"Have I lied to you?" He questioned and I was finally able to look back up at him. There was an evident sadness in his eyes, and it quickly dissipated as the joking began again, "I haven't lied to you yet. So to say that I lie to everyone would be a drastic over exaggeration, I don't know everyone in the world nor did I lie to you."

"I suppose that's fair," I replied softly, "Why do you enjoy riddling, Joker?"

"Why do you think I like riddling?"

I sighed, at this rate it would take me ten years to get this exposé! I expected him to rhetorical, and to be dark, ominous, maybe even hysterical, but he wasn't really ominous or hysterical, "I'm no psychologist, but I would have to guess that you riddle to distract people."

He leaned forward onto his elbows which were now planted on the steel table, "To distract people Doctor? Oh, from what?"

I shrugged, "You should tell me."

"Oh, Oh, Oh," He waved a single finger at me, as if scolding me again, "I'm not a mind reader. I am but a simple _chaotic_ man."

I stared at him coolly, "It could be anything, Joker. You could have been through anything."

"You don't think that I tell jokes to distract people from the scars, do you?" His eyes wide, glassed over with feigned tears, "Or how's about that horrible broken heart o' mine?"

"You're far too confident for it to be about the scars," I began, "So please, humor me. Why do you enjoy riddling - if not to distract others?"

A coy smile tugged at his make-up-less lips, "It's lunch time Ms. Florence, they're going to tell you that you have to leave and come back another time any second now."

"Are they?"

The door clicked open and a guard armed with heavy artillery entered, "Ms. Florence, you have to leave. It's time for the inmate's lunch."

Another coy smile.

Three hours and I had almost nothing to show for it. No name, No Story, No Man behind the Make-Up. Alas, the editor would have to wait and he would wait. He would wait for this story, because I was the only one that the Joker would speak with. I was the only one he didn't scare - perhaps that says something about my own sanity, or perhaps not. I escaped back to the _Gotham Times_ only to be threatened, and to be compromised, by the boss.

"It's going to take time," I told him.

He rolled his eyes, scoffed and walked away. I was costing him money, and he certainly didn't want to lose money - especially not on someone as expendable as an obituary writer. I think he kept me around those first few days when I came back with nothing for the simple fact that he didn't want to lose the story to another paper or a publisher somewhere. He wanted to be the first one with the story of the Joker, and I was the only person who could get it.

**II.**  
_New Beginnings _

I escaped the office after writing three obits to my tiny apartment in one of the worst parts of Gotham, and I lay in my bed for hours trying to sleep. Trying being the keyword here - whenever I closed my eyes all I saw was the Joker's face, with the scars. His scars that weren't as gruesome as some might expect them to be, but they were enough to feel sorry for him if circumstances were different. It was hard to imagine that those same scars had once been hidden behind a tacky white clown face and smeared lipstick. There were times when I laid there, imagining all the ways he could have gotten them and I realized that he, too, could have done the same thing.

He could have lain down on his bed for years after having gotten them, stared at the blank white ceiling and told himself different stories until he believed them all. The Joker could have driven himself insane, imagining hundreds of thousands of ways that he had gotten his scars. I only hoped that he remembered the real way, and hoped more secretly that I wouldn't suffer the same fate. I prayed that I wouldn't turn mad.

---

"So you return another day," The Joker grinned toothily at me. I found it odd that his teeth were pearly white while his face was in some places still stained with the clown make-up he used to wear, and his hair was greasy to a point that I seriously doubted that he could run his hand through it - let alone a brush or comb, "Ms. Florence."

I gave him a warming smile, "I don't give up."

"Perseverance," He replied with a nod, "I like that in a lady."

I raised an eyebrow, "I thought you liked a 'little fight' in a woman?"

He shrugged, "Either is a fine attribute to posses."

"Shall we continue then?" I replied, changing the subject just blatantly enough for him to find it amusing. A shrill laughter escaped him for the fifteenth time in the short time I had known him.

"You're flustered," He told me laughing all the while, "And you're not subtle."

"I'm aware," I retorted somewhat bravely, "Please, we should continue?"

"Why? Is Mr. Bossman upset because you're constantly coming back with nothing more than footnotes? Or do you just want to get away from me gorgeous?" He questioned, softly.

I had grown used to him calling me pet names, things like gorgeous, pretty, beautiful, pet – he had even used different languages a couple of times - and this was no shock to me. I paused - every night 'Mr. Bossman' reviewed the tapes and every night I wished he wouldn't, sometimes the Joker acquired _very_ personal information about me that I didn't want my boss to know, things that I had to tell him lest the interview fail and he turn me away like every other failed journalist. I told him these things because I wanted him to continue, and he wouldn't unless I revealed bits of myself to him.

"Yes, Mr. Bossman is upset," I told him sternly, "I haven't gotten my story yet, so I obviously don't want to get away from you Joker."

"How loved I feel," He licked his lips again - just another of a million things I had grown accustomed to in the ten days we had known each other - "To know that I am being used to break you into your career field. This is against everything I stand for, you realize."

I nodded, but couldn't bring myself to say anything. He essentially just told me that I was using him, and no one could deny that I was. I felt a little bad for it, and perhaps he was correct in saying that he would 'grow on me'. Perhaps he would.

**III.  
**_A Story Worth Writing_

"I was born in Alaska," He told me, and I could tell he was lying as soon as he said it, "In a small town in Alaska."

I stopped the tape of the hand-held recorder, "Don't lie to me Joker."

He sighed, and I began the tape again. After a moment, he began again but this time he was being honest, "I can't tell you where I was born, or even when. My earliest memories are with my mother in the Detroit area. We lived in a claustrophobic's nightmare of a one bedroom apartment. My mother turned tricks for a living - it wasn't pretty. You can't even begin to imagine the sounds that crept through those paper thin walls as I tried to sleep on the disgusting couch in the living room. There were nights when I wouldn't see my mother at all, and days when she didn't come home. The nights that she didn't come home were the worst. They were frightening, terribly frightening. Among the ring of shots in the streets and the bustle of cheap hookers, there were terrors in the streets below that apartment. Tell me, Ms. Florence, do you know what it's like to be afraid to go to sleep?"

I shook my head. Of course I didn't know what it was like to fear falling asleep, I grew up in Ontario. There aren't violent crimes up there, and the one time my family's home got broken in to all that the guys took were a few packs of cigarettes and the 24 pack from the fridge. It wasn't until I moved to Gotham that I began to fear going out at night, "No, I don't."

At my response he grinned fully, I could swear that the smile reached from one ear to the other, "My mother was heavy in to drugs. Looking back at those **GLORIOUS** times, I can almost certainly say that it was heroin and LSD that she was taking. The woman was not in the right frame of mind; she often would forget about me entirely. The woman would disappear - sometimes for whole months at a time, but she always came back - eventually." He nodded, almost as if he was trying to believe himself. It's hard to say if this was indeed the truth or not, but there was such a softness to him at that time. He couldn't have been lying to me this time, but if he was - well, the Joker deserves an Oscar.

"It wasn't until I was sixteen that my mother - the drug addicted whore - offered to take me to see my father. She told me, 'Son, you'll like this man. He's such a good man, an honorable man. Pay mind to him. Pay attention to him so you can grow up to be just like him.' When we finally got to Maine, which was where he lived, he turned us away. An honorable detective and a retired, decorated soldier, Of course he didn't want anything to do with me! I was a _mistake!_" His voice raised, in both volume and in pitch, "A mistake! He turned my mother and me away just as easily as you could swat away a pestering insect." He paused again, licked his lips and continued once more, "Anyway, My mother told me that she was mistaken. That man wasn't my father - he couldn't be! I was such a nice, respectful boy. I could NOT come from such a filthy, despicable man! But, the resemblance between the non-father and I was remarkable! There was _no_ denying that we looked alike -- perhaps he had a twin -- A twin that was my father and a good man. Perhaps he wouldn't turn us away -" His voice waivered.

His speech was so ruefully and so _innocently_ done that I felt sorry for him. He began again this time with an excited, over-eager voice, "But, do we have to concentrate on such grave matters?!" His brown eyes that were once intense and intimidating now inspired something softer and more fragile, a delicate sadness that I had only seen depicted once before by my own mother on her deathbed. My breath got caught in my throat, and that familiar hotness behind my eyes along with the tightness in my throat let me know that tears may be on their way. I coughed and took a long drink of water from the bottle I had brought with me.

I had been afraid that his life had been something like this, something horrible and tragic, but I wouldn't have been so surprised to find out the exact opposite. Perhaps he might have had a simple, happy childhood in suburban America, then what would I have to write about? "Happy childhood leads man to murder!" That headline doesn't have a ring to it and it's not as impressive or as heartfelt as the story he was telling me. According to Dr. Stone from Discovery Investigation's 'Most Evil', a majority of murderers and criminals have traumatic childhoods - have been through things that most of us can't even begin to imagine. The Joker was no different, at least not in the traumatic childhood bit -- I was beginning to feel differently about the man. Perhaps he was more human than we, the general public, would like to believe.

"Was your childhood happy?" He asked me, "Or was it tragic?"

I shook my head, "It was happy for the most part, but perhaps a bit tragic as well. My mother died when I was relatively young, she fought a losing battle with cancer for years. My poor father soon followed her to the grave, following the whole 'dying of a broken heart' bit. After he died we went to live with our Aunt, Uncle, and cousins in Texas."

"We?" He questioned, leaning over the table. I had turned off the tape recorder again - I didn't see the point in recording more of my personal life for Mr. Bossman to hear. He had no need to listen to my life story. My job was only to hear the Joker's tale - not to delve into my own.

"My older brother and I," I told him with a soft nod.

His eyes brightened up, "Tell me, do you still speak with your brother?"

There was a long pause. I couldn't bring myself to tell him that no, I no longer spoke to my brother. The reasons why I don't are far too personal, far too painful, to tell him. I knew he would press the matter, and I knew that I couldn't just lie and say that I had. You can't bullshit a bullshiter, and that's a solid fact.

"No, I don't speak with him anymore." I shook my head solemnly, "Something happened between us after our parents died. I haven't seen him since he was 18."

"That's. . ." He paused, "Unfortunate. But look at me, I have no family and I turned out just fine!"

The grin that spread across his face bordered hilarity and certain madness. A soft smile formed on my face, "At least you have a sense of humor."

He shrugged, "I like making people smile!"

This comment earned a raised eyebrow from me and a very long pause occurred before the guard came in and told me that it was time to go. I shouldered my leather bag and stuffed the tape recorder inside. As I was leaving, Joker turned his head, "See you later sweetie." I saw the guard raising an eyebrow at me, and I shrugged before leaving the room. I may have been used to the Joker calling me pet names, but those around us were not.

**IV.  
**_Sleepless Dreams_

"You don't look so good, pretty," Joker told me, as I sat in the uncomfortable chair across from him. My eyelids were heavy, and I'm sure I must have looked like hell. I hadn't been getting much sleep - I guess the Joker's story or the stresses of getting the story out were really affecting me in a horrid way, "How are you feeling?"

"I can't sleep," I told him, earnestly. There was no reason to lie to him - I wasn't feeling spectacular and he could easily tell. "I've had three hours of sleep in the past three days."

"Why don't you take a day or two off, mon petite chou?" He questioned, "Perhaps you would sleep if you wouldn't see me every day."

A sigh emitted from me as I slumped over the metal desk, "I can't afford to take a few days off. I barely make rent as it is." My arms were crossed in front of me, and I lifted my head to look at him, "Did you shower?"

"How sweet of you to notice." He grinned, and I could no longer detect traces of bright red lipstick. The black that was once invading the lines around his eyes was gone as well. A fresh, clean face was staring down at me with a mess of clean, curly brown hair to top it off. If it wasn't for the orange jumpsuit, my sleep-deprived mind might have hallucinated that we were just two normal people talking to each other. We stared at each other for a moment.

"It's..." I began and swallowed - not even believing what I was about to say, "Nice."

There was a small trace of a smile, "Aww." There was mockery in his voice, but I didn't mind, "That's sweet of you. Are you going to interview me or are you going to nap?"

I sighed and picked myself up from the table before getting out my trusty tape-recorder. I pushed record and collected my thoughts, "So what happened after you went to see your father when you were sixteen?" I slumped into my seat comfortably as I waited for his reply, "Joker?"

He was looking down drawing circles on the steel table with his index finger, "We traveled west, ended up in California for a while. Mother just got worse and more into drugs over there - a man convinced her she could be a model and an actress as he fed her the LSD and the heroin. By this time, I was old enough of course to know that he was full of shit. I tried to tell her, but she was -- stupid, she told me that she would be a star and then we would never have to worry about money ever again. A few weeks later, she goes to her first shoot. She finds out that it's of the Adult kind, but she doesn't mind because of the drugs. She just goes along with it. Weeks pass, and then months, and pretty soon I'm seventeen."

"And?"

"And, I'm seventeen."

"Congratulations. I was seventeen once, then a decade passed and now I'm sitting here speaking with you."

He paused, staring at me - either surprised by my smart-ass remark or taken aback by my lack of sympathy. Joker didn't say anything more for a good ten minutes, just stared at me wide eyed and aware that I didn't care about him any more than his drug-addicted mother did. Or at least, he thought that I didn't care about him and I tried not to - but damn, it was so hard. I knew he had murdered, plundered, stolen - but there was a soft center there and I caught glimpses of it now and again. I, being the girl who would never shut someone out of their life, cared for just about anyone I spoke to. Joker was no exception.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that, I'm just tired," I told him, apologizing despite what my boss would say and despite what he would think about me forever after. "I care, really I do."

A small smile formed, "I think you should take a day off, you need some sleep. What, with you being all unsympathetic and all? That's pretty uncharacteristic of you precious."

I blinked at him for a moment, "You want me to go don't you?"

"Yes, and if you come back tomorrow I will not speak with you," He began, "Get your sleep, and after a few days I'll speak with you again." There was a long pause and I shut off the tape recorder as I stuffed it back into my bag, "Take two Ambien and call me in the morning, Doctors orders." The novelty of the situation earned a small laugh from me as I stood shakily, my legs feeling like Jell-O as I walked to the door. He laid a hand on my arm and the guard pulled his nightstick, ready to burst into the room and attack him. I held up my right hand. "And, try not to think of me too much." There was a coy smile on his lips.

I smiled back, "That it?"

He nodded, "Class is dismissed."

**V.  
**_Relaxation_

"You're back here pretty early," Mr. Daniel told me as I handed him the tape, "Very early, in fact."

I nodded, "He told me he wouldn't speak to me unless I got some rest."

"Ashton, he isn't your boss," He told me, "You don't have to listen to him."

"Look, Rich, I haven't gotten any more than three hours of sleep in the past three days. I took his advice because I needed to, now I'll write the obituaries for the next few days but I can't go see the Joker. He wouldn't let me see him anyway."

"Ashton," He began again.

"Listen to the tape, you'll see," I replied, going to my small desk where ten Post-Its were. I called back all of the numbers, wrote the obituaries, and went home. I laid down in my bed, popped in _'Back to the Future'_ and drank a glass of milk. I fell asleep and slept like I haven't done since I was a freshman in college. I had to have slept twelve hours.

**VI.  
**_A Gruesome Revalation _

When I returned to the Joker he was pleased to see that the dark bags beneath my eyes had disappated and that I was in a considerably better mood. Or maybe he was just glad to see me in general, whatever it was the pleasant smile was a nice change of pace from the otherwise morbid man and I was even happier to see that he had kept up with his bathing.

I sat down across from him on my own side of the table, and managed to produce a smile, "How are you?"

"Better now that I see you're doing well," He grinned, his scars curving up inconsistently into that grotesque smile of his, "I suppose you want to hear the remainder of my story, hmm?" He leaned closer to me, "But before I tell you, I must ask you something."

I nodded, "Go on."

"Will you visit me, even after the story is out in the papers and you've become the envy of journalists worldwide?" A solemn look came onto his face, and that was when I realized that even he got lonely. Even he, the Joker, needed a friend since he was imprisoned in that dreadful place. He was _extremely_ perceptive of my real feelings by now, and even if I had lied he would have caught me on it. Called me out, perhaps even told me to go screw myself - no deal, not anymore. Fortunately, I was sympathetic towards him and perhaps I was a tiny bit attracted to him.

There was a soft pause, "I'll visit you."

A grin broke on to his face - probably the happiest look I had ever seen on his face since I had known him - and I smiled too, "So I was seventeen..." He began again and my thumb instinctively pushed the 'REC' button, "I was seventeen when I left home. I'm not sure that my mother even noticed, she was too _busy_ to care about little ole me. Besides, I could take care of myself. I was a big, strong man by then."

A skeptical look came upon my face, "Big, strong man?"

"My mother's words, not my own," He shook his head, "So, I was seventeen and living on the streets. I hitch-hiked towards Detroit, making it all the way back without any scars on my face, and it wasn't until I stepped back onto the streets of Detroit that I was afraid again. I had no money, no car, and no means of getting either of those things and so, I walked. I walked until I found some form of shelter - the homeless shelters were all filled by that time of night - and it happened to be through the door of an old abandoned apartment building." Another pause, a soft regretful shake of his head, "That was a bad decision on my part."

"Perhaps you should have gone to Ann Arbor instead."

"Perhaps," He said, "Anyway, this decrepit building seemed like a safe enough place - there were no inhabitants, and cops didn't dare invade those neighborhoods - so I laid out my coat, put down my bag and that was when this beast of a man walked in. He was homeless too - and apparently, I was in his domain. I tried to explain to him that I didn't know anything about this town. That I wasn't really from around there, but - he didn't listen. He pulled his knife, and he kept asking, 'Do you think this is funny? I'll show you funny.' I'm not going into details, I wouldn't want to scar that pretty little head of yours, but that was how I got these scars."

"How did you survive?" I questioned half in shock.

"I managed to crawl out and forced myself to walk to the nearby clinic - from there, I'm not quite sure what happened. I passed out, or blacked out, and didn't come to for several weeks. When I was back on my feet, I was a changed man."

"How were you changed?" I said softly, "And how exactly did you coin the phrase, Why So Serious?"

He smiled grimly at me, "I was no longer a seventeen year old who couldn't stand up for himself. I was - well." He motioned to himself, "I was this, sans make-up." Another pause, a soft frown, "When the nurses walked in and out, not one smiled at me. They were - cruel, cold. I was ugly to them, and depraved, and criminal. I had done nothing to them, nor had I done anything to deserve being treated like a criminal - but they found themselves too good for me. So one day, when a nurse was checking my statistics, I looked up at her and asked her, 'Why So Serious?' The nurse nearly jumped out of her skin, and I never saw her again. I continued asking and they continued ignoring me. I suppose you could say that's a reason I began to enjoy the taunting, the teasing - as I do now."

Another pause.

"Tell me, love, do you have feelings for me?" He questioned, seeing the look of sympathy or spotting an opportune moment to taunt me as he had with the nurses, "When I look at you, I see something more than what everyone else sees and I know that you see the same in me. You don't find me horrifying, or ugly, do you? You might even find me... attractive."

I gulped audibly, "You're quite charming, even for an anarchist."

"Anarchy is an interesting thing. Those who claim that they are anarchists still want to create civilization and to manage it. I, on the other hand, am opposed to both. Never mind that though. Tell me the truth now; do you have feelings for me?" He pressed; his arms cross over his broad orange-covered chest.

I nodded, softly. I couldn't deny it, the man could basically read my every thought; he would know if I was lying to him. It would have been foolish of me to give him a reason to seek revenge at a later date. I was afraid that he would hurt me, but I should have been scared of other things. I should have been afraid that he was using my vulnerability - the fact that I had feelings for him - to find a way to escape. I panicked, not wanting to harbor a criminal and for some reason wanting to be with him at the same time.

"So you do, Ms. Florence," He smiled brightly. It was perhaps the first genuine smile I had ever seen from him and I feared it would be the last. "Are you embarrassed of this?"

My breath got caught in my throat, "I'm afraid, terrified even."

"And do you wish to know if I feel the same?" He questioned, brown eyes gliding over my face silently - exploring every flaw and feature. Apparently, he was ignoring my answer. I didn't know if this was because he sympathized with what I was afraid of, or if he ignored it because it wasn't exactly what he wanted to hear. He licked his lips again, "I suppose you do, my dear."

Again, a soft nod. I wanted to know, and even more, I wanted to know what he wanted from me - other than the visitation he had previously requested. There was a sudden, intense, and sharp strike of fear.

"Don't be afraid of me, fear will only prevent you from accepting me," He paused, licking his lips once again, "And I sincerely do, even genuinely if you appreciate that word better; I don't want to scheme you, or hurt you."

The mutual feelings revealed, I sighed out of slight relief. Now, thinking back on it, I should have realized that requited love wasn't the thing to be worried about - actually it should have been the farthest thing from my mind. I should have been thinking, _what if he does something irrational_. Fuck the 'what if', to boot, the question should have been "What happens when he does something irrational?"

I was relatively young, however, and being just shy of thirty I was still wary of heart ache. Always having been of a more romantic disposition, being heartbroken was one of my worst fears; a fear that I always battled and repeatedly lost to. Joker was a charming constellation of madness, chaos, serenity, and sincerity. While he often lied about himself to others, you could always be sure that his threats weren't idle.

It was foolish of me, but I asked a simple questioned, "Do you promise that you won't hurt me?"

My naivety got the best of me. I cracked under pressure. I fell in love with a mad man, but I had my exposé and I suppose that's all that mattered to me then. I thought that Arkham asylum could contain the Joker although it had not managed to control his insanity. Joker copy-cats had ripped the city from end to end in devious, demented crimes that scared citizens so much that half the population had left the city. Even though the city officials, men like Commissioner James Gordon, tried unsuccessfully to assure them that the city would be safe once more. Without Batman and without Harvey Dent, the city was burning. The Joker had achieved what he had come to do, but he was not done torturing _me_ yet. His plans for me had not even started.

**VII.  
**_Scars of My Own_

Several restless nights later I sat with my back against the headboard of my cheap wooden bed as I tried to get the words out. The already three page long article did not seem to do the criminal mastermind justice, no matter how hard I tried or what words I wrote, or how I explained the way he looked at me. I couldn't even scratch the surface of how he seemed to be more than insane and didn't come close to touching on the fact that he didn't seem insane to me at all. The interviews with his psychologists all pointed otherwise, stating that a person who once said he'd quite enjoy watching the world burn couldn't possibly have a clean bill of mental health. As much as I tried not to, my feelings got in the way. I realized that Joker had mindfucked me so hard that I might never be the same.

Just as I was typing up yet another page of my Joker Experience (deluxe, hold the vomit), I heard something clatter to the floor in the kitchen. I glanced at the clock which was staring back at me in big, bright blue numbers 2:15 AM. It could be my mind playing tricks on me, or it could be my cat Dane who often knocked pots and pans from the counter on to the floor in the wee hours of the morning. It very well could have been either of those, but my heart told me otherwise. Quarter of an hour later when the right side of my bed sank in considerably and the gently purring noise of my cat was now within earshot, I knew what I would find when I looked over.

I hesitated, closed my eyes and counted backwards from 20, just to make sure that it wasn't a dream. Before I even made it to seventeen, I felt two fingers walking across my bare leg, up from my hip, and crossing the flat region of my ribs to my chest. I looked over at him, scarred face staring back at me with a soft smile. I smiled back as I hit ctrl+s to save my work, and then shut my laptop. I set the small computer on the floor next to me and slid it under the bed to avoid damaging it. He had my hairless cat lying in the space between us as he gently scratched its head. It was all very surreal and much too domestic of a setting for him, for us I suppose, to be in.

"Were you writing... about me?" He asked, quietly. The cat lay quietly purring between us.

I nodded, unable to find the words. The apartment stood still as he stared at me - there was warmth in him yet. I wondered a hundred thousand things as he lay next to me in a pair of black pants and a white v-neck t-shirt.

"Did you hurt anyone?" I asked when I could finally speak. I held my breath, afraid then that it might be my last night on Earth.

He shook his head, "I did not. It wasn't necessary. There is more than one way to escape an asylum, or so I've heard. The guards take naps, and the doors are easily picked with a little help from my friends."

I feared what or who those friends might be, but then I noticed the bobby pins holding pieces of hair back - bobby pins that I could have easily dropped during one of our various interviews. I had helped a prisoner escape and now, I feared, he would want to stay with me.

"Did you mean what you said, Ms. Florence, or were those just pretty lies?" He asked, fondly. It seemed like he was moving closer, and I noticed now that there was a bit of space missing between us.

"I'm not fond of liars and I'm not fond of lying either," I replied simply. "I meant what I said."

And then, he did something I never imagined he would do. The cat ran away as he leaned over me and pressed his lips to mine. What was even more surprising than the act itself was the fact that I _liked_ it - a lot. I was smiling stupidly as he pulled away, and he licked his lips again. His body was soon pressed atop mine in haste as a steady flow of ecstasy washed over us. He kissed his way down my jaw to my neck and exposed collar bones. I felt his hands at the hem of my tank top, itching to peel it off and expose a 'beautiful' body. He did, peel the shirt off that is, but was surprised to see that I had my own scars. He ran calloused fingers over the flesh that covered my ribs and abdomen.

I looked up at him and was taken aback as I saw concern in his eyes. He ran his fingers over the scars for a few moments, as if in a trance. It seemed he was startled that he was not the only disfigured one. I grimaced slightly as he looked up at me, knowing what question was coming next.

"What happened, to you?"

"You know the brother that I don't talk to anymore?"

"He did this to you?"

"Not directly, but it wasn't the physical side of the scarring that hurt me."

"What did he do?"

"He blamed the death of our parents on me."

"But that doesn't -"

"And then he drove off a cliff with me sleeping in the backseat. When we survived the fall, he told the police that I had been driving and that I was under the influence of drugs and alcohol. I had been high before I had fallen asleep and they believed him when he told them that I had been driving. Later, the doctors analyzed my blood and told the cops that I couldn't possibly have driven us off a cliff accidently with such a small amount of marijuana in my system. My brother was arrested the next day for attempted murder and I was set free. He hasn't spoken with me since."

"He tried to kill you?"

I nodded, "It was a long time ago, thirteen or so years in fact."

"Does it still hurt?"

I nodded again as I tried not to cry. I failed, of course, and found a human side of the Joker as wiped the tears away.

"People like your brother are the reason I wish to watch the world burn," He admitted, leaning close to me. He kissed me again, "And it's people like you who make me wish the opposite."

I smiled softly at him again as he commenced his kissing once more. He took his time, carefully placing kisses down my body until he reached the band of the black cotton boxers I was wearing. It was then when I was welcomed to take off his shirt and was once more amazed by him. His body was not an eyesore, oh, not at all. He was fairly skinny but had muscles where they mattered most on any man's body - his abs and arms were perfection. And as quickly as the lasciviousness faded, it had come back to us. Slowly, ever so slowly, my boxers were being slid from my body and discarded on the sea of wooden floor below. It wasn't exactly easy for either of us, but eventually his pants joined my boxers on that very same floor.

**VIII. **  
_Like Strangers in the Night_

Several hours and the most delightful sexual experience I've ever had later, our heavy breathing had slowed and my head was resting very comfortably on his chest. I felt Mr. Sandman creeping up to my mental door just as Joker began to speak again.

"I can't stay here." He told me, "They'll find me here. I have to leave."

It was the most straight to the point thing he had ever said to me, and I looked up at him with lazy wide eyes. It took a few seconds but he finally realized that I was asking him a question: what now?

"Come with me." He looked desperate and scared for once, and it was clear that he was not nearly as in control as I had previously imagined.

I kissed his chest, "Come with you?"

He nodded, "Please just... Please."

I considered briefly my three options: risk a possible homicidal lashing and end up dead, watch him leave never really knowing if I loved him or not, or go with him, forever more living a life on the run. He kept staring at me, anxiously awaiting my answer. When I stalled, he rolled out of bed with a quickness I didn't imagine he could have. He pulled his clothes on as I stared at him.

"I'll come with you," I told him, sitting up with my turquoise sheets wrapped around my body. He was frantic; I could tell by the way he was pacing in the most horrid way. "Slow down! I'll come with you, if you still want me to." I grasped his hand and he pulled away violently, suddenly his real persona coming back to him.

"Don't touch me," He bellowed, causing me to jump back. I was so startled I nearly fell backwards off of my bed and wound up on the floor. I looked back at him, my shaggy brown hair falling haphazardly in my face and my eyes glazing over with tears from fright, rage, depression, or some mixture of the three. I was bewildered as he took a few steps back. "Don't follow me. If the police come here, tell them that you never saw me, or you can tell them that I raped you if it helps you get to sleep at night. I don't care, just leave me alone."

Maybe I was wrong about the insanity.

"Don't follow me," He warned me again as I stared at him, "If you do, you will suffer greatly."

I backed up again, suddenly feeling vulnerable for a second time, and realizing what had happened. He scurried out of my bedroom, out of my life, just as fast and as unexpected as he had come into it. I managed to hold back the tears as I stumbled to the door frame. I saw him stalking away with a blazer over the white v-neck t-shirt. When I was sure he was gone I dead bolted the door and found my way to the shower. I wasn't going to call the police, although that would have been the logical thing to do. In fact, I wasn't going to tell anybody about what had happened.

**IX.  
**_Pestering Annoyance _

Early the next morning I was awakened by a loud, hasty knocking on my door, and when I managed to find my way there, pulling on a man's black button up as I opened the door, I found Comissioner Gordon staring back at me. "Where is he?" He demanded.

"Where is who?"

"Your boyfriend."

I raised an eyebrow, "Commissioner, we both know that I'm not in a relationship at the moment."

"The Joker. You've cozied up to him, haven't you? Well, haven't you?"

I stared at him, "I've befriended him for the sake of my career, but for no other reason than that. Why in God's name would he be here? Isn't he supposed to be in Arkham Asylum?"

"He escaped late last night. You were the only person he knew in Gotham. The only person he could have run to. So, Ms. Florence, are you going to tell me where he's at or am I going to have to take you downtown for questioning?"

"I haven't seen the Joker, and if I did I would tell you Mr. Gordon. I have no reason to harbor a criminal. If I had to guess, I'd say that he's far away by now getting his last laugh."

Gordon glowered at me, but persisted, "You've seen him. I know you have."

"Commissioner, I'd love to tell you that I have and that I know exactly where he went because we all know that he belongs in an asylum, but I can't. So, if you'd please, I have an exposé to finish."

"Just know that if any evidence comes to light that you have lied to me, you will be thrown into a cell for obstruction of justice."

I nodded, "I understand."

"Have a good day Ms. Florence."

"If I see him, I'll give you a call," I told him.

He nodded at me, but hesitated; he was dead-set on finding the Joker cowering in a closet in my apartment. "But if you wouldn't mind I'd like to look around."

I shook my head, "Not at all."

After the fruitless search, Commissioner Gordon left my apartment to go back to the station. I went to work on the article with a boat load of fresh inspiration at hand. Within the next five hours, the exposé was finished. After a few clicks, it was sent to my editor. He loved the article - even offered me the newly opened senior reporter spot but I turned it down. I would never write a newspaper article again. In fact, I told him that I wouldn't be staying in Gotham too much longer. I told him that the Joker had scared me so much that I had decided to move out of the state. I was going to move to the West Coast and hopefully start a new life. A life that wouldn't be such a failure.

**X.  
**_Threats and Promises _

Two weeks later, I opened my mailbox to find a letter with a smear of red lipstick as the return address. When I opened it, I half expected to be asphyxiated by anthrax but was instead greeted by a lengthy letter that ended with a note to expect at least one more letter from him. It was from the Joker, of course, and when the second letter came only three words were on the yellowed paper:

_I'll find you. _

I didn't know whether to take it as a threat or a promise, and tried to ignore the fresh fear that the letter had instilled in me. I tried to ignore the anxiety that pestered me as I packed my things into one of those big boy U-Hauls and got into the driver's seat. It took almost a week to get to the small, northern California town that offered me a Public Relations job to draw more tourists into the quaint seaside villa. I was pleasantly surprised at the calming effect the sea air and salty rain offered, and was even more excited when I opened up the door to my new one floor bungalow that over looked the ocean, and found nothing more than dust and dull bamboo floors. No Joker, No Problem, right?

Wrong.

I should have known that he wouldn't come to find me in day light, or that he would find me right away. Almost a month passed before he showed up on my doorstep disguised as a normal person with his mouse-brown hair slicked back and a bouquet of lovely deep-violet lilies in hand. I stood staring at him with an apron tied around my waist and my hair falling out of a half undone ponytail. I blinked at him, trying to wake myself up from the dream I must have been having. Since when did I decide to bake brownies at two in the morning, anyway? Certainly, this was my subconscious' idea of a bad joke.

However, when I felt his lips connect to mine in a sudden, jerky manner I knew that it wasn't a dream. This was reality, and there was no escaping him. I blinked at him, and with nothing else to say, muttered, "You were mean to me."

He cracked a smile, despite knowing that I wasn't lying, but I wasn't amused. He tried to get in, but I kept my body in front of the doorframe. He kissed me again, "Why so serious?"

My stomach wretched knowing he had said that to several people who now lay at the bottom of a six foot ditch, covered in dirt and cold. They were there because of him, and I might soon join them. In the months that had passed, I had come to my senses.

**XI.**  
_Mediocracy at Last_

A week later, I lay there in my bed with the warm Californian sun pouring over my nearly naked body that was only partially covered with a white sheet. The body next to me turned over snoring lightly. I admired the innocence he held when he slept, but was also enraged that he was inevitably working to destroy my life block by block. I was angry with him for that, but for some reason, still in love with him. I stared at him as the phone began to ring. His eyes opened and they stared right back at me. I still believed that this was all too domestic for the Joker.

And I still couldn't figure out how he convinced me to let him in that night.


End file.
